


Can't Stop Now

by fadeoutslow



Series: Have Your Way [2]
Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-31
Updated: 2012-12-31
Packaged: 2017-11-23 03:29:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,415
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/617567
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fadeoutslow/pseuds/fadeoutslow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sequel to <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/532583">Have Your Way</a>. Set around India, where Jev ran into the back of Michael early on the first lap, giving him a puncture, and Abu Dhabi, where they both had a terrible quali.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Can't Stop Now

Another miserable race, and Jean-Eric's trying not to let it get to him. Korea was such a high and he was determined to carry that momentum over to this weekend in India but, somehow, things never seem to go according to plan. And he supposes that's racing but it's difficult not to feel frustrated.

Especially when it's your own fault. He knows that technically it was a racing incident and he did everything he could to avoid it, but, still. He was the one running up the back of someone else's car, not the other way round. And of all the people it could be, fucking _Michael_. Jean-Eric feels the burning sting of humiliation just thinking about it.

He tries not to dwell on the negatives, he does. The team have spoken to him about the way he so often can't let things go, can't move on to focus on the next race but fuck it, he's allowed to feel bad, to drown his sorrows a little.

And maybe drinking alone in your hotel room isn't the world's best idea but it's not like he's doing anything tomorrow except flying home. Who cares, right? Who gives a shit? Not him, not Jean-Eric, and not anyone else as far as he can tell.

That's the one thing they never tell you about being a driver, he muses, after making some pretty substantial inroads into his room's mini-bar, well, one thing among many, but no one ever tells you how fucking _lonely_ it can be. You're constantly surrounded by people, by the team, by fans, by sponsors, but you're just a product, not a person.

 _Whatever_ , he thinks, because there's nothing more indulgent or unattractive than self-pity. He checks his phone, scrolling back through his messages, then stops. 

And he's about to do something really, really stupid, he knows, but it's not like the day could get any worse, so he types: _This time I ran into your car. I guess now I owe you._ and quickly hits _send_ , trying not to hold his breath.

It's about ten minutes later when his phone beeps and he snatches it up, looking at the reply. _I guess you do._ is all it says, and Jean-Eric reads and re-reads it several times, thinking there must be more, that the rest of the message got cut off somehow, but no, that's it.

That's the whole thing.

He paces the room for a while, wondering if he should text back, but what could he say that wouldn't sound completely pathetic and way too eager? Damned if he can think of anything, so he decides to keep drinking instead, making sure to have his phone nearby, _just in case_ , he tells himself, and the drunker he gets the more obsessively he checks and double checks his messages.

There's still nothing when he finally collapses on the bed, passed out, and in the morning he's too hung over, too busy rushing not to miss his flight. It's in the back of his mind, of course, a small, stinging hurt lurking like something keen and sharp, but he doesn't allow himself to give it more thought.

-

He's cautiously excited about Abu Dhabi. The track doesn't suit their car, but at least it's a place he's familiar with, and he's hoping he can get some form back, especially in qualifying, where he knows he's falling down.

But the best laid plans and all that.

"Do you want to have dinner?" Dan asks him after the seemingly endless debriefing.

"No, I'm fine," Jean-Eric replies, shortly, and he can see Dan wants to say something else but, thankfully, he chooses to stay silent. "I just want to concentrate on the race tomorrow," says Jean-Eric, trying to sound conciliatory, but it's obvious Dan, and everyone else, knows how he's feeling. Which just makes it that much worse.

He finally escapes, heads back to his room and takes a long shower, standing under the hot spray with his eyes closed, inhale, exhale, emptying his mind. The thoughts always come creeping back, though, and at this point he doesn't know how to stop them.

He rubs the steam off the mirror, stares at himself a while. _You can do this_ , he says, but the words seem hollow, empty.

A distraction is what he needs but that's easier said than done. He throws on a bathrobe, wanders back out into the room, and checks his phone. And promptly does an actual, physical double-take, because there's a new message, which simply says: _I'd like to collect what's owed to me._ followed by a room number. 

And _fuck_ , he wasn't expecting that. 

"Okay," he tells himself, speaking out loud. "Be cool."

What he wants to do is rush out the door, but he forces himself to take his time, thinking carefully about what to wear, dressing up a bit with a proper shirt and a scarf, spraying on some cologne and putting some effort into his hair. He feels stupid, because if last time is anything to go by, this is only going to be another no-strings fuck, but anything to avoid showing up too soon and looking desperate can only be helpful.

Most races there's generally a few other teams staying in the same hotel, but Abu Dhabi is different, with _everyone_ all together at the circuit, so Jean-Eric tries to avoid being seen on his way to Michael's room. There's some mechanics from another team in the lift, and he nods at them politely, but they basically ignore him, talking amongst themselves, and the corridor leading to his destination is thankfully empty and quiet.

He composes himself best he can, then knocks. The door opens almost immediately, Michael's head poking around the side as he ushers Jean-Eric in.  
Jean-Eric turns as Michael closes the door behind him, and, yeah, apparently, just like their previous meeting, this isn't going to be some slow seduction, with Michael already clad only in a pair of black briefs.

It's a relief, in some ways, because, whatever happens, there's still a race tomorrow. Social niceties would only waste time. 

Michael seems a lot more relaxed than the last occasion they met which, Jean-Eric supposes, is understandable, given the shit the guy must have been going through then, right before the retirement announcement and all.

"Hello," Michael says. 

"Hi," Jean-Eric replies.

Michael's standing, hands resting calmly by his sides, and it's clear he's inviting Jean-Eric to look at him, to stare, at his body, the curves and bulges of exaggerated muscle filling out smooth, tanned skin. 

And it's weird, Jean-Eric muses, because Michael's not his usual type at _all_ , like not even remotely but the man is so fucking charismatic, so sure of himself that it's impossible not to be attracted.

Jean-Eric takes a breath, and Michael moves closer. "Bad day," he says.

"Yeah." Jean-Eric nods.

"For both of us," says Michael, taking hold of the end of Jean-Eric's scarf, looping it over his head, pulling it slowly from around his neck. Jean-Eric feels the fabric slide over his skin as Michael holds his gaze, finally tossing the scarf to one side. 

Michael takes another step forward, leaning in to press kisses along Jean-Eric's jaw, starting from below his ear, making his way down towards his chin, a tight, precise line. Jean-Eric tilts his head to one side, and maybe this isn't the time, but he's probably not going to get this opportunity again, so he says it. "Can I ask you something?"

"Of course," Michael says, not missing a beat, his lips now on Jean-Eric's throat, his hands quickly unbuttoning Jean-Eric's shirt.

"How do you deal with the bad days?" Jean-Eric says.

Michael shifts back, sliding Jean-Eric's shirt off his shoulders, letting it fall to the floor. "If you can, you learn from them." He shrugs. "And if you can't, you let it go."

"How?"

"Every failure is just another step. It just means you're closer to winning."

"What if you never win?"

Michael looks at him, perfectly composed, inscrutable. "You have to believe you can. If you can't do that, then… you shouldn't be racing." He takes Jean-Eric's face in his hands, sliding around to cradle the back of his head, his neck. "You worry too much," he says, and then he's kissing Jean-Eric, unhurriedly, like there's no need to rush, gentle and forceful all once.

Jean-Eric closes his eyes, lets his hands drift down Michael's spine, and it's like being _learned_ , mapped out, the way Michael kisses him, and it's hot but frustrating, somehow, not quite enough, and every time Jean-Eric tries to deepen the kiss, Michael backs off, not completely, but somewhat.

He finally grabs Michael's hair, rougher than he should, but fuck it, pulling him in, mouth open wide, too much teeth, and Michael laughs into it, grabbing Jean-Eric's shoulders and pushing him away.

Michael smiles at him, his lips wet. "What do you want to do?"

"What?" Jean-Eric says, breathing hard, not sure he understands.

"Now," Michael clarifies. "Tonight. What do you want to do?"

"Oh." And it's odd to be _asked_ , but it's not as if he hasn't given it some thought over the past few weeks. "I'd like…" he says, and he's not sure if it's allowed, if it's even appropriate, but he says, "I'd like to fuck you."

Michael regards him, impassive as ever. "Maybe," he says. "I might let you." He pauses, obviously considering. "If you're good."

"I can be good," says Jean-Eric, a hint too fast, too eager. He can do _anything_ , pretty much, if the end result is getting his dick in Michael's ass.

"I'm sure you can," Michael says. "Anything else?"

Jean-Eric raises his chin, looks Michael in the eyes. "I wanted to suck you."

"Suck my what?"

"Your cock," Jean-Eric says, his voice steady. "I want to suck your cock."

Michael looks at him, then says, evenly, "I've been thinking about you doing that."

"You have?" And Jean-Eric can't help but feel vindicated, _proud_ in some way.

"Yes," Michael says, "I've been thinking about it a lot. About your mouth. Your mouth is…" he stops, reaching out, running his thumb over Jean-Eric's lips, and Jean-Eric licks at it, brief and heated. "Magnificent," Michael finishes. "Really."

"Thanks," says Jean-Eric and it should feel awkward, all of it, but instead it's freeing, in some way, like being unburdened.

Michael nods at him, as if something's been decided. "Okay," he says, turning, removing his briefs, kicking them to one side. He heads for the bed, climbs on as Jean-Eric waits, watching him as he arranges himself, lying on his back, head propped up on several pillows, knees bent, feet on the bed. He stills, starts to slowly stroke his cock, and it's only then that Jean-Eric moves closer, standing at the end of the bed, toeing off his shoes and then pulling down his jeans and underwear, stepping out of them, leaving them where they lie under his feet.

He runs one hand over his chest, and the way that Michael's looking at him… Jean-Eric's not sure that _anyone_ has ever looked at him like that. People have wanted him, sure, bad enough that it's been written all over their faces but this is different, somehow. There's no desperation to it, just _focus_ , absolute, studied _desire_ , and it makes Jean-Eric feel like he could do anything. 

He crawls on to the bed, settling himself on his stomach, between Michael's legs. Michael stops touching himself, already good and hard, and he puts his hands underneath his head, smiling, anticipating. And Jean-Eric leans in, kissing his way up the inside of Michael's thighs, licking at the crease between his torso and legs, first one side and then the other. He looks up at Michael, biting his lips to make them redder, wetter, then holds Michael's gaze as he slowly, deliberately takes the head of his cock into his mouth.

"Yes," Michael says. "Yes." The last syllable is a drawn-out hiss, and Jean-Eric averts his eyes, concentrates on his task. He's tempted to show off, try some tricks, but he's guessing Michael's probably already seen it all, won't be impressed by anything complicated, so he pays attention to getting it right, as textbook as he can, sucking, working his lips, his tongue. 

Michael doesn't touch him; there are no hands in his hair, no impatience, and it's so much better, Jean-Eric thinks, to just be able to _do_ this, to take his time, to properly enjoy it, no rush, no looking over his shoulder, worrying about who's going to knock on the door, suddenly come round the corner. And Michael's cock is kind of fucking _perfect_ , substantial without being huge, exactly right in his mouth, the weight of it, the _taste_ of it. He sucks harder, letting himself drool a little, saliva dripping down the shaft, glancing up at Michael, who appears to be losing it in the most satisfying way imaginable. And yeah, Jean-Eric thinks, _yeah_ , because this feels like power, this is something, watching Michael fucking Schumacher come apart with what you're doing to him. He presses the knuckle of his index finger to the skin behind Michael's balls, small, insistent tempo of pressure, and listens to the noises it elicits, quiet, guttural almost-growls that don't sound like anyone Jean-Eric's ever been with.

Michael's different, it seems, in every possible way.

And he's close now, Jean-Eric can tell, so he tries to take Michael's cock deeper, but the angle's all wrong, making him gag. He pulls off, impatient. "Sit up," he says, climbing off the bed.

"What?" Michael stares at him, not understanding, vaguely dazed and angry-looking.

"I want to swallow your cock, sit up."

"You can't…?"

"No," Jean-Eric interrupts, "I can't. Come on."

Michael shakes his head, seeming to recover himself somewhat. "Demanding," he says, but he's smiling as he moves to position himself on the edge of the bed, legs wide.

Jean-Eric kneels, sits back on to his heels, and breathes, taking Michael's cock in his mouth once more, re-establishing his rhythm, going further and further down each time, letting go, opening himself up, until it's _there_ , thick and heavy past the back of his tongue, filling him like something profound, something he was made for, shaped for.

He works the muscles in his throat, gorging himself on the feeling, and Michael moans, sounding reckless, his hands on Jean-Eric's jaw, grip firm, his hips moving now. "Oh," he says. "Clever boy, beautiful boy." And there's nothing gentle about the way he's pushing in, but it's so fucking _right_ , so exactly what Jean-Eric needs. "So good," Michael says, and he's coming, hot pulses streaming into Jean-Eric's mouth. He pulls back just enough to taste it, swallowing what he can and letting the rest run out the corners of his lips, keeping some on his tongue, sensation lingering as Michael's spent cock slips from his mouth. 

His legs are numb, but he doesn't move, watching Michael, who still has his head thrown back, the long, solid line of his neck a gorgeous curve until he straightens up, looks down at Jean-Eric. His eyes are dark as he takes in the sight of Jean-Eric, lips parted, come still dripping down his chin, and then grabs him, fierce, hauling him up, kissing Jean-Eric like he's going to devour him, licking at his face, sucking the come from his mouth, chasing away the taste until there's almost nothing left.

Michael's arms slide around Jean-Eric's waist, and the kiss softens, fades to almost nothing before Michael pulls away with a small sigh. He draws Jean-Eric closer, turning his head to rest his cheek against Jean-Eric's chest. It's an oddly tender action, but Jean-Eric can't wait.

"So," he says, enjoying the slight rasp in his own voice, the touch of rawness in his throat, "was I good?"

Michael releases him, shifts back on the bed. "Very good," he says.

"Good enough?" Jean-Eric asks, trying not to sound too hopeful or needy. "I mean, you said, if I was good, I could…" He doesn't finish the sentence, doesn't need to.

"Maybe," Michael tells him, smirking briefly. He narrows his eyes. "Do you have a boyfriend?" he asks.

"What?" says Jean-Eric. It's not a weird question, but it's a weird time to be asking. "No," he says. "I mean, Dan and I sometimes…" His voice trails away because he has no idea _what_ you'd call what goes on between him and Dan. "But, no," he says, more firmly.

"Dan Ricciardo?" Michael says, pronouncing the name the Italian way, the wrong way.

"Yeah."

"Hmm," says Michael, "I didn't think he leaned that way."

"Well, you know. He says he doesn't, but…"

Michael nods. "They all say that."

And Jean-Eric would _really_ like to stop talking about the other people he's sleeping with, so he asks, again. "So, can I?"

"Can you what?" Michael says, but it's clear he's teasing, relishing making Jean-Eric actually say it.

"Can I fuck you?"

Michael makes a show of thinking for a second before he answers. "Yes," he says, "yes, you can." And Jean-Eric can _feel_ the rush of blood to his cock, immediate and urgent, but Michael speaks again. "But we do it my way."

"Any way," Jean-Eric says, "anything you want."

"Okay," Michael says, standing up, turning his head from one side to the other, stretching his neck. "Get on the bed," he says, motioning. "On your back."

Jean-Eric obeys, and Michael opens one drawer and then another, obviously searching for something, murmuring to himself, then going into the bathroom.

"Okay," he says, again, when he returns, throwing a condom and a container of lube on to the bed. In his other hand, there's a belt, and Jean-Eric feels his eyes widen at the sight.

"I…" he starts, but Michael interrupts.

"Do you have any problems with your shoulders?"

"Sorry?"

"Your shoulders."

"No."

"Good," Michael says, standing at the end of the bed. He grabs Jean-Eric's ankles, hauls him roughly downwards about a foot or so, and then says, "Put your hands above your head."

And Jean-Eric feels like maybe he should argue, question exactly what is going to happen here, but he _trusts_ Michael in some strange way. He barely knows the guy, not on a personal level, but there's some kind of _connection_ there, and he's probably just imagining it, he knows, it's likely just sex high, endorphins, but right now he's willing to go with it, whatever the reason, so he does what he's told.

Michael crawls up over him until his knees are either side of Jean-Eric's torso, and he loops the belt several times around Jean-Eric's wrists, sliding the strap through one of the bars of the bedhead, buckling it closed.

He pulls on it, testing, frowning. "You'd better hang on, as well," he says. "With your hands." He gestures. "It might get too tight otherwise."

"I can just hang on," Jean-Eric says, because he'll do whatever it takes to get this, have this. "You know, if you don't want me to touch you, I won't." 

"I know," Michael says, "but this is better." He shuffles back until he's kneeling over Jean-Eric's thighs, serious now, and Jean-Eric watches, fascinated, scooting himself down the bed just enough that he can feel the pull in his arms.

Michael squirts lube over two of his fingers, then reaches behind himself, and Jean-Eric can't technically see what he's doing, but he can see the expression on Michael's face, the intense, faraway stare of his eyes, the way the muscles in his upper arm contract with each movement and it's seriously the hottest thing he's ever seen. 

Michael's mouth is open, just slightly, the tip of his tongue resting wetly on his bottom lip. He runs his other hand up over his chest, fingertips rubbing up against his nipples, and draws in a long, shuddering breath, closing his eyes for a moment, then stops.

"I…" Jean-Eric starts, because he doesn't know how much more of this he can stand. He _needs_ this, needs it like fucking _air_ , like he might _die_ if he doesn't get it. 

"I know," Michael says, understanding, and grabs the condom, ripping open the packet with his teeth, throwing the wrapper to one side, taking Jean-Eric's cock in hand, and even just that touch, clinical and practical, is nearly overwhelming. He whimpers, small and undignified, as Michael rolls the condom down over his dick, cool and smooth. "I can't…" Jean-Eric says.

"Shhh," Michael says, and then he's holding Jean-Eric by the base, slowly, _agnonizingly_ slowly, lowering himself down on to Jean-Eric's cock. Jean-Eric pushes his hips up, desperate for more, faster, and Michael suddenly ceases his movement. "Stop it," he says.

"What?" says Jean-Eric, uncomprehending. 

"Be still," Michael tells him. "Don't move until I say you can, or we won't do this. Understand?"

Jean-Eric nods, and it takes every last ounce of will power he has to remain motionless, to _not_ thrust up but he's waited so long for this and he's not going to screw it up. He grits his teeth, focuses on Michael's face.

"Good boy," says Michael, but he doesn't start up again, and Jean-Eric knows he's being tested, assessed. He concentrates, breathing through his mouth, thinking of the finish line, the end goal, and somehow that makes it easier.

"Okay." Michaels nods, and then he's sinking down again, less measured this time, but still careful, steady until Jean-Eric's fully inside him. And Jean-Eric gasps at the _feeling_ of it, _surrounded_ by heat, and Michael's so fucking _tight_ , way tighter than Jean-Eric would have expected.

Michael shifts his hips, settling himself, and that alone is almost too much, almost enough. "Fuck," Jean-Eric says. " _Fuck_."

"So impatient," Michael says. "You're all so impatient." His voice is strained, slightly rough, but he goes on. "You're so young," he says. "All of you."

" _Please_ ," Jean-Eric says, desperate now, right on the edge of losing it completely, the whole world narrowed down to this one endless, instant of absolute _need_.

"Okay," Michael says, "you can." He leans back on his arms, finally, _finally_ moving himself up and down on Jean-Eric's cock and Jean-Eric pushes up into him, harsh, frantic noises escaping from his mouth, and it would be humiliating if it wasn't so good.

"I'm not…" he mutters, and _going to last long_ is what he means, but that's already redundant because he's coming, letting go of his grip on the bedhead, the belt pulling tight around his wrists, snapping wrench in his shoulders as his whole body jerks with it, molten shot of something white hot and burning down his spine. He cries out, ramming up into Michael as he finishes, then falls back, gulping in mouthfuls air, nerves jangling with the aftershocks.

Michael leans forward, unbuckling the belt, and Jean-Eric's arms fall limply above his head. "You okay?" Michael asks, and he can only nod in reply, feeling Michael move off him, hearing the condom tossed in the rubbish.

The bed shifts as Michael lies back down beside him, taking each of Jean-Eric's hands in his own, in turn, checking his wrists, and Jean-Eric allows himself to be examined, still boneless and limp. "You'll have bruises," Michael tells him. 

Jean-Eric shrugs. "Worth it," he says. "That was…" and there's really _no_ word for it. "Intense," he says, which seems inadequate, but it's something. He shakes his head, coming back to himself, to reality. 

"Yes," Michael says.

Jean-Eric rolls on to his stomach, exhausted. He's aware enough to keep it casual, remembering that the last time he went for something resembling post-coital affection he got pretty badly shot down but damned if he isn't going to try again. He yawns, drapes one arm over Michael's waist, watching his face. Michael doesn't say anything, merely looking back at him, and Jean-Eric presses a kiss to his chest, then cautiously rests his head there, the steady beat of Michael's heart in his ear. He's fully expecting Michael to move away, start making excuses about the race tomorrow and early starts, but instead there's only a soft little huff of air that could perhaps be a laugh before he starts running his fingers through Jean-Eric's hair.

And it's… well. It's _lovely_ , it's comforting. It's things that Jean-Eric is pretty sure are very unwise to be feeling, but he banishes the thought from his mind.

"I _am_ sorry," he says.

"For what?"

"For last week, in India."

"Ah," Michael says. "I don't think that was your fault."

"No, but I'm still sorry."

"Well, it happens."

"Yeah." Jean-Eric smooths his palm over the ridges in Michael's abdomen, hard muscles under the skin, harder than his, firmer, more solid. _Older_ , he supposes. "Are you going to miss it?" he asks.

"I'll miss the racing," Michael says. "Not the rest of it."

And yeah, Jean-Eric can understand that. He can feel himself starting to drift off into sleep, and he knows he can't allow that to happen, however pleasing the thought is. "I better go," he says.

"You'd better," Michael agrees, but for a long moment neither of them move, silence and absolute warmth, the kind you wish could last forever only because you know perfectly well that it never can. Finally Michael says, "Come on," and nudges Jean-Eric off him.

"Okay," says Jean-Eric, groaning, stretching his arms out as he stands, and yeah, he's going to be sore, but not so much that it will interfere with his driving. He pulls on his jeans, his shirt, picks up his shoes before looking at Michael, lying back on the bed, watching him, one hand resting on his thigh, next to his cock, skin tan against the white sheets.

"Well," Jean-Eric says, and he'd like to go over, maybe kiss Michael goodbye at the least, but he's honestly not sure he can trust himself, still not entirely certain what would or would not be welcome. "Maybe we'll have a better race tomorrow," he says.

"Maybe." Michael smiles at him, tender and genuine, seemingly quite sincere and Jean-Eric can't help but grin back. 

He's being stupid, he knows, letting himself feel things he has no right to be feeling, but, in the long run, it's of no importance. Michael will be gone, soon, the season will be over and until then, there's the racing, and that's the only thing that matters.

"Good luck," he says.

"Good luck to you too," says Michael. 

Jean-Eric turns to leave, not looking back, closing the door behind him.


End file.
